For Pete's sake, I couldn't spy on Gary and Glokkmann as long as she was chattering. "Because it was coming loose under the table. Wanna go grab me some staples?"

"Not really. Wanna come by the hotel later and hang?" Her face had returned to its relaxed stage, open and confident.

"Not really."

"Too bad," she said, pulling herself out from under the table and tipping her head at the door. "Because that's probably the only way you'll find out what just happened."

I crawled out from under the table, too, rubbing the goose egg forming on the side of my head. I was just in time to see Gary subtly yet physically escorting the Representative to a waiting unmarked police car.

"I'll be there at seven," I said.

"Great! See you then."

And she skipped out, strangely perky for a woman whose mother has just been arrested. I stood and considered whether it was time to invest in fresh ibuprofen. And then I sneezed twice in rapid succession.

"Gesundheit!" Someone said from the back of the library.

"Thanks," I replied, cursing the cold that was following hot on the heels of my stomach bug. That was all I needed. I blew my nose and made a note to buy myself orange juice and garlic after work. In the meanwhile, I wanted to know what the media knew.

I plunked down at the nearest terminal to see if the police had issued any announcements in the Webber murder and came up empty-handed. Next, I searched for Swydecker and found that the newspapers were reporting him as hospitalized without a specific reason, though the blogs were afire with rumors of a suicide attempt and a mistress. He had not yet officially withdrawn himself from the campaign.

Just to scratch an itch, I did a search on "Glokkmann," "tomatoes," and "Battle Lake" and found a comprehensive story about the drifter who'd pelted her. In a former life, Randall Martineau had been the owner of a small carpet-cleaning business in Glokkmann's district. He'd been forced to close his business when he was struck with an unnamed lung disease and couldn't afford to keep the business afloat and pay his medical bills. Not until he'd given up his business and plummeted to the poverty level did he qualify for state-subsidized health care. His disease was currently in remission and he devoted his time to raising awareness about the health care crisis in the United States. It was Glokkmann's bad luck he and his troupe had landed in Battle Lake this week.

That was enough non-library work for the day. I spent the next several hours helping a young couple figure out how to use the computer to shop for homes in the Cities, locating Otter Tail County records for a researcher from Fargo who was writing his dissertation on Indian burial mounds, browsing Library Journal reviews to uncover which books to spend my meager acquisitions funds on, and creating promotional materials for the children's author I had tracked down and booked for a presentation next week. I was about to close up shop at 6:00 when I became aware that I hadn't had time to restack the huge pile of returned books that had acc.u.mulated over the day. Sighing deeply, I went to work and checked them in and shelved them in under an hour.

Since I was running late anyway, I stopped by Larry's to buy garlic tabs and orange juice for me and dill pickle potato chips and mineral water for Kenya. Never show up empty-handed, my mother had always taught me. I drank half the carton of juice on the way to the motel and downed three garlic tabs, but the itch in my nose and fogginess in my head were getting worse instead of better. I should just become bubble girl and call it a life.

Pulling into the motel parking lot settled a cold stone in my stomach. I was sick of the place. It was jinxed forward, backward, square, and round, and I would have much rather gone straight home to feel sorry for myself. Unfortunately, my curiosity and obligation to Mrs. Berns were stronger than my self-pity. I trudged up to the lakeside second floor. The police tape was gone, but I'd bet dollars to donuts that neither Swydecker nor Webber's rooms would be occupied anytime soon. In fact, the whole motel felt vacant, except for to my left, where I could hear Rage Against the Machine pumping out of the room that Kenya and Glokkmann shared.

I knocked, then knocked again. I sneezed three times in a row and was about to say "screw you" to my curiosity when the music quieted and the door opened. Kenya was dressed only in a towel, her hair wet. "You're late."

"I'm here now," I said. She was younger than me if only by a year or two, and I wasn't taking any sa.s.s from her.

"Hold on, I gotta get dressed." She stepped back from the open door and dropped her towel, making certain to hold my eye contact. I sure wasn't going to look anywhere else; I'd learned that lesson from Darcy. When I didn't blush or acknowledge her nudity, she turned and strolled over to the dresser. She had a tramp stamp etched on her smooth lower back, ornate words that spelled out something that looked like "non duc duc." I wondered if it was Korean. She had a beautiful body from behind, athletic with curves, but I wasn't a fan of the single white female act. I set down the potato chips and water and walked over to the curtained window, pretending to look out at the lake.

"Tell me when you're done," I said.

She didn't respond. I heard the soft slip of clothing, and then footsteps approaching from behind followed by something furry in my hand. I jumped, and she laughed.

"Don't hurt it!"

I turned to see her holding a fuzzy rodent that she'd tried to slide into my palm. "What the h.e.l.l is that?"

"A gerbil. His name is Hammy." She set him on the ground and pulled a small gumball-sized rubber ball from the pocket of her silk robe. "Fetch, Hammy!"

"Can he play dead?" I liked rodents a little more than I liked birds.

"No, watch!" The ball disappeared under the bed, and ten seconds later, Hammy scurried out with one cheek bulging. He ran a circle around Kenya before spitting the red ball at her feet.

"Wow." I actually was pretty impressed. I bet I couldn't train my cat to do that, although he wouldn't mind teaching Hammy a trick or two. Actually, just one probably, and it would be called, "tell me what color my stomach is."

"I know! He's my best friend." The creepy seductress was gone and in her place was a young, fresh-faced girl. "He's an absolute genius. Mom hates him. I wish I could bring him everywhere but she makes me leave him in his cage. He hates cages. Would you like living in a cage?"

"No." Her rapid speech made me uncomfortable. "Speaking of your mom, where is she?"

"Grace said that you're a reporter. Do you like reporting?"

"I wouldn't do it for free," I said. "Kenya, did your mom get arrested today?"

"I have a boyfriend, you know. His name is Brad. He's in a rock band."

I sat down across from her. "Kenya, where's your dad at?" I'd initially put her at her mid to late twenties but up close, agitated and without makeup, I wondered if she was even old enough to vote.

"Home. Moorhead."

"Does he know where your mom is?"

She crumpled to the floor and started crying, slow tears that doubled and tripled until she was sobbing. She looked tiny and fragile, and I leaned over to hug her. Hammy scurried up my leg and into her pocket.

"She's in jail! They think she killed that guy, but I know she didn't. She was with me that night. All night. In here."

"All night?" That was what Glokkmann had told the police, but she had no one to corroborate it.

"Yeah." She pulled away and rubbed her hand across her nose. "She was at the Octoberfest thingie for a while. She wanted me with her, you know, so she could do her rainbow nation deal. I played good daughter until I got bored, and then I went to check out the band. That's when I met Brad. Anyhow, she had Grace track me down and said it was time to leave. We all headed back here. Mom took one of her sleeping pills, so an earthquake wouldn't have woken her."

Her story jibed with what Brad had told me. "Did you tell the police that?"

"No." She hung her head. "I was mad at mom for dragging me to this podunk town. I wanted to make her squirm a little, so I told the police I was out all night partying so she wouldn't have anyone to support her story." Her words caught in her throat. "I didn't know they'd arrest her."

"That's what happened today? Your mom was arrested for Bob Webber's murder?"

"Yeah. They said they found some of her hair on the scene. And she didn't have an alibi."

"If you tell them the truth, it will help your mom."

"And land me in jail!"

"It won't look good, but lying to the police about your whereabouts isn't illegal. Right?"

"Will you do it? Go to the police for me, I mean."

"We could go together."

"Haha! Look at Hammy!" He'd peeked out of her pocket and had a piece of lint perched on his nose like a tiny Hitler mustache. "Sieg heil, Hammy!"

Her gales of laughter on the heels of torrential tears had my head spinning. Talking to her reminded me of looking through the microscope in ninth grade biology. Everything-oak leaf scales, bacteria, blood platelets-looked like a blurry green eyelash to me. I had to fake it, just like I had to fake that she wasn't screwy.

"Okay, I'll do it, but only if you call your dad and let him know what's up. Plus, the police are going to want to talk to you, so you're only putting this off, not avoiding it altogether."

"Thank you!" She lunged at me with a hug, and I could feel Hammy squirming between us. "I'll call right now." She went over to her purse and yanked out a sparkly pink cell phone.

"No messages," I said.

She gave me the "shush" signal. "Daddy? It's Kenya." She paused, and then started crying again. "The police took her away. And it's all my fault!"

The conversation devolved from there, but toward the end, he must have brought her back on track. She was wiping her eyes and sniffling but sounded okay. "I love you too, Daddy." She hung up the phone. "He's coming. He said he'll be here before the morning to help with mom and to bring me home. I'm sorry I'm so difficult."

"Your life can't be easy." It was the truth. My mother had been an enabler, but she was always there for me. I knew she loved me and was proud of me. Glokkmann had treated Kenya like a trophy when we first met, cutting her daughter down and raising herself in the same stroke. And Glokkmann's treatment of Grace gave me good reason to believe that was just skimming the surface of Glokkmann's dysfunction.

"I'm all right," she said. "I'm just a big baby sometimes. That murder, and then the suicide attempt. And I'm sick of this town. I just want to go home."

"I can sympathize."

She shot me a grateful smile. "I'm fine. But you should probably go. You don't look so good."

I didn't feel so good. My nose felt as red as a cherry, and I could feel a pressure on my lungs. This bug was. .h.i.tting whatever body parts the previous one had overlooked. "OK. But here's my phone number. Call me if you want me to come back after I talk to the police for your mom. I can stay with you until your dad gets here." I sincerely hoped she didn't call, but I wanted her to know she had options.

"Thanks, Mira. You're a pal."

If by "pal" she meant "village idiot," then we were on the same page. I left with a head full of snot and for the second time in a week would have given any four of my toes to be going home to bed. Instead, I was heading to the Otter Tail County jail in Fergus Falls, a 20 minute drive with the wind at my back.

If you drive in on the east side, Fergus is a bucolic river city, an old village whose downtown has retained much of the charm of turn-of-the-century buildings. The county jail was blocks from this pretty downtown area, a 1987 block of brick appended to the historic, cream-colored limestone and brick courthouse. The only good thing I could say about the jail was that I wouldn't have to run into Gary Wohnt here. I hoped. I was still confused by his electric resemblance to my twenty-three-foot fibergla.s.s love bucket. How could I have not noticed that before? Maybe it was just the lack of sleep and my head cold. Probably Gary didn't look anything like my sweetheart Wenonga. I'd click my heels three times, and the world would return to normal.

I was in luck. Thursday visiting hours were 6:30 to 9:00, which gave me a good fifteen minutes with Glokkmann. I was escorted down industrial hallways to a secured visiting room with rough-clothed couches and bolted-down tables. It reminded me of a high school teacher's lounge. Inside, Glokkmann was seated at a table with a Bible and a handkerchief. I was surprised to see her in the same clothes she'd been arrested in. I a.s.sumed she'd be forced to wear a zip-up orange jumpsuit, but here was one more thing Charlie's Angels had misinformed me about.

"No interview," she told me, her voice icy. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her but they still visibly twitched. "I agreed to see you because of my daughter."

"She called?"

"My husband did. He said you'd be on your way."

"Then I'll be brief. Kenya has agreed to tell the police that she was with you the night of the murder."

"The police claim my hair was found tangled in the murdered man's fingers." Her composure was chilling.

"Ick. Did you give them a DNA sample?"

"Not yet."

I'd learned in the past that what the police can accuse you of is completely different than what they can formally charge you with. "Did you kill Bob Webber?"

Her eyes sliced me, fried me, and ate me for supper. "No."

The c.r.a.pper was, I believed her. I was confident she was a stone cold b.i.t.c.h, but I didn't think she'd murdered Webber. "Look. I know what time period Mr. Webber is believed to be murdered in, and I know you were sleeping during that period. I'm going to tell the police, and Kenya has agreed to substantiate the claim."

I didn't know what emotion I'd been expecting, maybe relief, a little grat.i.tude. Instead, she said, "Fine."

"Fine? I just drove from Battle Lake to help you out. And I have a fever." I might have sounded a little whiny, but I couldn't help it.

"It's not my fault I'm in here."

"It's not mine either."

She held up her nose. "Of course I knew Kenya was in the room with me all night. I was waiting for her to come around and support my story. She's a willful child, but she loses interest in her tantrums fairly quickly." She leaned in closely, her gaze intense. "I love my children. Every one of them. And I will go to the ends of the earth to protect them."

I didn't know what we were talking about, but it was important to her. "You're protecting Kenya? From what?"

"From herself. How much do you know about attachment disorder?"

"Nothing."

"It's common in children adopted between the ages of one and three, at least if they were severely neglected before they were adopted. They have a hard time creating positive attachments and bounce between clingy behavior and distance. They're also manipulative and defiant. Kenya is all these things, and it's because she spent her first two years in an inst.i.tutional orphanage, the only physical contact once-daily diaper changes and twice-daily feedings. It's made her a difficult person, though she's getting better with medication and therapy. Because of her disorder, she lied about my whereabouts the night of the murder."

I was following, but slowly. "So why didn't you tell the police?"

"Her father and I have spent our lives protecting her, trying to fill the holes in her heart. It's time for her to see the consequences of her actions without our interference."

I wondered if Glokkmann had ever second-guessed a decision she'd made. Some might call it confidence, but from where I was sitting, it was the worst kind of hubris. "So you're letting yourself be put in jail?"

"A mother would understand."

I didn't know why her words stung. "Then you don't need my help."

"I appreciate your coming. This has been a breakthrough for Kenya, it sounds like. She's telling the truth. But no, I don't need you. I can clear myself. The case against me is flimsy, always was."

I'd had exactly enough brain stretching for today. I stood. "Great. Good luck with that."

A horrified expression crawled across her face. She must have a.s.sumed that since I'd driven this far that I'd see this pony over the finish line and tell the police what Kenya had said. No reason to waste too much grat.i.tude on me, in that case. But as she realized her miscalculation she stood and gathered her possessions, as if she could leave just as freely as me. I stomped out, stopping on my way only long enough to tell the officer at the front counter what I knew about Glokkmann's alibi, which left me with a clear conscience and absolutely no closer to knowing who had killed Bob Webber.

The ring of the phone woke me like a slap. Outside my window, the morning was gray, either indicating a crazy early hour or a cool and rainy day. I peeked at my clock before the phone rang a second time: 8:34 a.m. This was a perfectly reasonable time to call, and if it weren't for my head cold, general exhaustion, and the overcast day, I would have been up and about. As it was, I just wanted another ten minutes in bed. Too bad the person on the other end of the phone line didn't know this.

"h.e.l.lo?" More frog croak than birdsong, but the best I could do.

"Mira James?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Glenn Vanderbrick."

Why did that name sound familiar? I wished I wore gla.s.ses so I could slide them on now and make the whole world clear. Unfortunately, this was as good as it was going to get. "I'm sorry, who is this?"

"Glenn Vanderbrick. You e-mailed me, asked me to call?"

Now I remembered. He was the guy who'd reserved the room at the motel where Bob Webber's body had been found. I rushed out of bed and into the kitchen for a pen and paper. "That's right! Sorry. Thanks for calling."

"No problem. Did I wake you?"

"Nope." Hardly counted as a lie if it kept someone from feeling bad. "Mind if I ask you a few questions about Bob Webber?"